Page 88 of Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games 2)
I lurch to my feet. Connor follows.
“Tabby?”
His voice is tight with worry, but I can’t think about that now. I can’t think, I can’t breathe, I can barely put one foot in front of the other holy shit get me out of this room before I scream—
I’m scooped up in a pair of strong arms.
“Wha—”
“I’ve got you,” says Connor. I realize I’d been just about to fall. My legs are as wooden and useless as the rest of me.
As if he knows instinctively that I need to get as far away from this room as possible, Connor strides out of the office, carrying me in his arms. In the hallway, he pauses, looking left and right.
“Outside,” I say, panting fast, shallow breaths.
Connor squeezes me. “You’re hyperventilating. If you don’t get your breathing under control, you’ll pass out.”
I drag in a huge breath, blow it out hard. It seems to help clear my head, so I do it again.
“Good. Keep doing that.”
Connor starts to walk again. We move down the hall until we get to the elevators. He lifts a knee and presses it against the call button, and I’m distracted from my pending mental breakdown by how impressed I am that he can stand on one foot and knee a waist-high button on the wall while holding a grown woman in his arms, all without even a wiggle of imbalance.
Between breaths, I wheeze, “Do you do Pilates? Your balance is amazing.”
“Yoga.”
He answers with a straight face, so I know he’s not making a joke. I picture Connor—macho man, hulking muscles Connor—on a yoga mat doing sun salutations and a downward-facing dog, and laugh. Unfortunately, it was badly timed as I was in the middle of gulping air, and so I start to cough, big, body-racking coughs that have Connor saying, “Whoa,” and looking alarmed.
“Put me down,” I croak, gasping.
He gently sets me on my feet and then puts his hands on my shoulders to steady me. I lean against the wall and cough and cough until finally I catch my breath and look at him, my eyes watering and my face red.
“Thought you were gonna cough up a lung, princess.”
His voice is casual, but his expression is anything but. He’s concerned. Really concerned.
A melty feeling expands inside my chest. It’s definitely better than what was there a few moments ago.
I blurt, “Thank you.”
His forehead wrinkles. “For saying you were gonna cough up a lung?”
“For getting me out of there. And for being…”
I flail around for the right word, but Connor supplies it before I can come up with anything.
“Supportive?”
“Yes,” I say as the elevator dings and the doors slide open. “Supportive. Thank you.”
He gazes at me for a moment. As if just realizing his hands are still on my shoulders, he withdraws, shoves them into his pockets, and clears his throat.
“Sure. That’s what friends are for.”
Friends. Why those seven letters arranged in that particular way and said in that particular tone should irritate me so much at this particular moment, I don’t want to examine.
Yes, I’m going with denial, thank you very much. It’s highly underrated.
